Sculpting Souls
by NittanyLizard
Summary: Ten years after the death of his parents, Ponyboy Curtis takes in a troubled boy and finds himself struggling to come to terms with the absence of his own father. Ten Years Later rewrite.
1. Chapter 1

If it looks familiar, this is the first chapter of my Ten Years Later rewrite. This is the chapter that's most similar to it's original version. After this, it's mostly . . . different.

I selected the title of this story from the lyrics of one of my favorite songs just two weeks before its writer/singer passed away. I truly hope that he is now with the man who inspired the song – his father.

**Disclaimer**: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.

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**Sculpting Souls**

**Chapter 1**

_Yesterday I found my strength in the eyes of a child – frightened, lost, and alone, but not without confidence that the adults would figure things out and the world would be better by tomorrow._

I picked the top folder from my pile, leaned back in my government-issue swivel chair, and opened it. "Victor?"

The boy sitting on the other side of my desk glared at me. "It's _Vic_."

"Vic it is, then." What's your story, Vic? Thirteen years old. No siblings. Mother – skipped town two years ago after dumping the kid off with dad. Father –

I glanced up at Vic. There was still a decent bruise next to his left eye. How long ago had it been? I consulted the file again – two weeks. I took another look at him. His dark angry eyes bore into me, and his hair stuck out in unruly wisps like he hadn't combed it in . . . well, in two weeks. When a bunch of strangers take over your life, you maintain control in some of the only things you have left – like not combing your hair. No one's going to hold you down and do _that_ for you.

"Are we almost done, man?"

"Pony," I told him.

He looked confused. "What?"

"You can call me Pony. That's my name."

Vic smirked at me. "As in, not big enough to be a horse?"

I grinned. "No. As in, adorable animal that chicks like to ride." I figured that would get him, and I was right. He had to look down at the floor so I wouldn't see his almost-smile. "So how come you hit Mr. Farnum?"

He shrugged. "He was in my face."

"Oh yeah? He says he asked you four times to move your stuff up to your bed."

"Maybe he's lying. Maybe he didn't say nothing. Maybe he just grabbed me by my shirt and waved a fist in my face for no reason except he don't like me."

"Maybe. But did he?" I leaned back in my chair with a sigh and tossed the folder onto the desk. Vic was avoiding eye contact, pretending he was intently interested in my pen holder. "Look, Vic, you can't go hitting people you don't like. I realize you're in a bad situation, but that kind of thing will only make it worse for you. They won't put up with that over there. The only reason you didn't get tossed right back into juvie is because a couple people owed me favors." As soon as the words were out, I knew I'd said the wrong thing.

Vic clenched his teeth. "Don't you dare save my ass and then expect me to suck your cock. I never asked for your help."

I put up a hand. "You're right. You're absolutely right. You don't owe me a thing. Not even gratitude. But you owe yourself better. You know? Just don't hit anybody. Can you at least handle that? Because you know as well as I do that you'll be hard enough to place as it is." More like impossible, I thought, but kept that one to myself. _Sorry kid, no one wants a thirteen-year-old hoodlum who spent two months in juvenile hall for armed robbery. _Forget that you were stealing a box of cupcakes, and that you were waving a penknife at the cashier who caught you. Tough break. We can't _pay_ anyone enough to take you home. I was tempted to retract my advice and tell him to go ahead and go hog wild, because there were some people out there who could really use a good whack in the face. In my opinion, Ted Farnum was one of them; but I also knew how pointless it was for a kid like Vic to try to take on the world on his own. That was the kind of thing that had gotten Dally nothing but dead.

"Are we done yet?"

Some of the desks around us were emptying out. I looked at the clock – three minutes till noon. Protocol dictated that I should wrap this up now. But for some reason, I couldn't. Eight months into the job, a filing drawer packed with backlogged case files, and I couldn't let this one kid go back to the group home for a lunch of boiled chicken and canned vegetables. I had no idea why. Maybe it had something to do with Dallas Winston popping into my head. I mean, the kid didn't even like me.

"Hungry?" I asked him.

"Huh?"

"You do eat, don't you? Let's go get lunch." I wasn't sure exactly what I was doing, but I couldn't put that kid back in the pile. Not just yet.

Vic made a point of staring out the window and ignoring me as I drove, which was just fine with me. I've never been one for the mindless time-filling chit chat that people actually think makes life less awkward. If you don't have something useful to say, keep your mouth shut. Vic was sure doing a good job of that.

He looked so young. It had been eleven years since I was that young, and it seemed like I must have looked older than he did. Probably not. That's probably why Darry had worried about me so much – when he had looked at me when I was thirteen, he'd probably seen a little kid that the world was ready to take into its claws and suck the life out of. I wondered if I still looked that young to him.

"Well, here we are." Talk about your mindless chatter. Like the kid needed me telling him we'd pulled in and I had stopped the car. I'll tell you, you get people telling you your whole life how quiet you are, and you sometimes actually start to believe that there's something wrong with that.

We went inside, and I sat across from Vic in the booth and watched him polish off two sandwiches and a large fries. He still looked hungry.

He looked something else, too.

He thought he was hiding it well, and he was from most people, but I could see it as plain as day. After growing up in my neighborhood, I guess I can see through the mask more often than not. Vic was good, but not good enough.

"I know you're scared."

He glared at me again, like I knew he would. "You don't know anything. You don't know me at all."

_Oh, but I do know you. Different name, different face, but I know you._

_You're Dallas Winston. You're Johnny Cade._

_You're who I could have been, without my brothers._

I stared at Vic and watched him shift uncomfortably under my gaze. I knew I was deciding on something that would have a major impact on more than one person. Good, or bad? I guess life would be a lot easier if we always had the answer to our choices right in front of us. I would have known to not run away the night Darry had hit me (or, at the very least, to not wake up Johnny and walk to the park).

As I sat staring at uncomfortably-shifting Vic, I was struck by the impression that I was at the pound, gazing through the bars and wondering if he was housebroken yet. That was what did it. I looked into the eyes of the kicked puppy sitting across from me, and I leaned close. "I know you hate me. I know you think I'm the last person in the world who gives a crap about you." Vic stopped chewing. "Well, Vic, today is your lucky day."

He tried for bored sarcasm. "Why? Did I win the lottery?"

"Better. You're not alone anymore."

Vic's expression faltered, just for an instant. He still didn't trust me, but he wanted to believe me, and that was a start. If only I'd had some idea what I was getting myself into that day.

But then, if I had, there's a good chance I would have driven that kid straight back to the boys' home right then and there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. I am making no profit from this story.

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**Chapter 2 **

_I believe that sometimes, it is the family we are most at odds with who draw out the person within us whom we would like to think we are not._

The angled rays of the sun cut through the sweltering haze outside and warmed my arm as I finished my end-of-the-day paperwork. _Can they make it any colder in here?_ It was like they were trying to recreate February right inside our building. Yet, in February, the inside of the building was so hot they could've sold snow cones in the lobby. My dad had hated air conditioners. He didn't even like the idea of having one on in the bedroom at night, which was what some folks were getting them for – how was anybody supposed to get any sleep when they couldn't hear the crickets and the frogs?

"Ponyboy?"

My arm followed the quick movement of my head as I turned, and I knocked my pencil case over. "Mrs. Bryant!" I stood up and snatched a couple of pens just before they fell. "Sit down." I circled the desk and angled one of the faded chairs into a better position.

"Thank you, Ponyboy." Our former case worker gathered her briefcase into her lap as she settled herself down into the chair. I sat in the one next to her, since I figured it would come off as arrogant if I went and sat behind my desk. "I understand you'll be fostering a boy by next month," she said.

"That's right, ma'am."

She gave a slow nod and surveyed me just long enough to make me uncomfortable. "Have you heard anything from the newspaper?"

I felt the same internal cringe of shame that hit whenever somebody asked me how my big career in journalism was going. "No. I mean, not since that last position." I had lost count of how many times they'd given me a "thanks, but no thanks." The catch-22 didn't even surface until after I graduated from college, though I had unknowingly been caught in it for four years – get a high-paying physical job during the summers so I could pay my way through school, and then get passed over in my field of choice for those who had spent their summers doing unpaid internships. But there had been no way around it – no job, no money; no money; no school.

"Something will come up," Mrs. Bryant said, just like she always did.

Mrs. Bryant had been one of our strongest advocates in the year after my parents were killed; as much as we feared visits from the state in the days before they happened, our case worker's easy manner, optimistic outlook, and kind smile never failed to have us breathing easy again by the time she left. It had taken until I got a good look from the inside to understand – compared to how some kids had it at home, our life, with Darry in the lead, was like heaven. Mrs. Bryant had always told us that she didn't need to have known our mom and dad to know exactly what kind of people they had been.

I nodded and wondered if my failed career path was the only thing she'd stopped by to chat about. Not long after getting me my job – she had run into me in the grocery store and dangled a decent salary plus benefits in front of me – Mrs. Bryant had been promoted and moved to another building, so we rarely saw each other anymore.

"Ponyboy," she said, "you're a good worker. Your supervisor is thrilled with you, you know that." I opened my mouth to shrug off the compliment, but she continued. "But you're also a young man, and I know this isn't ultimately where you want to be." She set her bag on the floor, crossed one leg over the other, and turned to face me better. "Why? If you don't mind my asking, what made you decide to foster this boy?"

"Uh . . ." I shifted in my chair and fiddled with my shoelace like I was in front of my third-grade principal. "We always need families, right?" It was something I saw every day – so many kids needing somebody to take them in, but not enough families to meet the demand. "I'm just doing my part." It sounded like the right answer to me, even though I wasn't sure myself that it was the real one.

Mrs. Bryant looked at her hands for a moment, giving her wedding ring a few turns as she thought over my answer. Wisps of her graying brown hair had come loose from her barrettes. She looked like anything but a career woman – at least how all the young ones out of college were trying to look – but that's exactly what she was – an original, solid, working-for-a-living woman whose job was more than just a paycheck. "Ponyboy," she said again, "I've known you for a long time. I just want to make sure . . . you can't go back, Ponyboy. You can't use the present to change the past."

So _that_ was it. "I know," I said. "Johnny and Dally've been dead a long time. I know I can't change that. I wouldn't try."

She smiled and raised her eyebrows. "I wasn't talking about Johnny and Dally. They weren't the only people you lost back then."

At the time, I truly didn't get what she was driving at. "I'm not sure I understand, Mrs. Bryant, but you don't need to worry. I'm signed up for one of the foster parent workshops, and my home study is just about finished. Did any problems come up with it?" I couldn't imagine what problems they could have encountered; you mostly needed to be a functioning human being without a criminal record and with an extra bed in your house. I already filled the first two requirements, and after a weekend of help from Sodapop, I had converted my "office" – the tiny second bedroom of my apartment – back to its primary function.

Mrs. Bryant considered for a second before shaking her head. "No. No, Ponyboy, there's no problem. I think it's wonderful that you're doing this. In fact . . ." She leaned over and shuffled through her briefcase. "I've got a phone number here for you. Ah, here it is." I took the scrap of paper she handed me. "I think you should give this family a call. They've got a farm a ways outside of town – hundreds of foster children taken in over the years."

It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. "Hundreds?"

Mrs. Bryant stood up, so I got up and started gathering my stuff. "Many of them were very short-term," she explained. "Children who needed a place to say last-minute before a court date, and it was sometimes a nicer place to house them than one of the group homes. You know, for that amount of time."

"Sure." My gear collected, I fell into step beside Mrs. Bryant as we walked to the elevator.

"But anyway, I thought you might want to give them a call." She set a hand on my shoulder. "Workshops are fine, honey, but once you've got the real thing, it's best to have all the advice you can drum up."

I pressed the button, and we stepped into the elevator. "Sure, of course. Thanks. I'll give them a call." I didn't mention that I didn't expect to have too many problems with Vic. After all, we had come from practically the same neighborhood.

#

I would've liked to have said that Vic and I hit it off right away and got along like peanut butter and jelly, but we didn't. Vic was closed off, and everything I did was wrong in his eyes. Same type of neighborhood or not, Vic was the kid and I was the grown-up. He didn't trust me as far as he could throw me.

I had expected as much – Vic had been in and out of the care of the state several times already, and I had attended sessions and workshops that skimmed the surface of what foster parents could expect from their charges – so I didn't take it personally. I mean, it was harder than I'd thought it would be, but for the most part I stayed cool and calm, I didn't react when Vic tried to shock me, and I mostly just stayed out of his way. It was up to him to let me in, but he would have to do it on his own; the harder I knocked on the wall he'd put between us, the more adamant he would be to never let it crumble.

So for the first week, Vic did just about everything he could think of to push my buttons. After mutilating my name several times a day at first because he "forgot again," but not getting the response he wanted, he moved on to criticizing everything about me – my furniture (I agreed with him, it was crap), my clothes (he was right, I looked like a bum on weekends), the paint color (I like it just fine, thanks) – everything. He tried all sorts of angles that I didn't expect, too.

"You some kind of pervert?" he asked me on the first night.

"Pervert?"

"Yeah. You know – one of those sick bastards who comes into kids' rooms and touches them when they're sleeping." He gave me this look like he thought he was on to me.

"Uh . . . no. I'm not a pervert." What else was there to say? It really wasn't something I felt like I needed to defend myself against.

"Then how come I'm here? Don't you think it's a little strange? An unmarried guy your age locking up a helpless kid in his apartment?"

I choked back a laugh on the _helpless_ part. If anything, _I_ was the one who would be sleeping with one eye open. "No, Vic. I'm not a pervert. Just a guy trying to help another guy out."

Vic's expression darkened. "Well, I don't need anybody's help."

"Then I guess we're just roommates." Maybe that threw him off, because he didn't offer a comeback, and that was the last time he questioned my intentions. At the time, I was hopeful that maybe I'd actually gotten through to him.

After four weeks, though, it was apparent that about the only part of me Vic didn't have a problem with was Darry. And that, for whatever reason, actually did bug me.

"Go get the broom and sweep up that junk you dragged in on your shoes," Darry said. Vic had been out in Darry's front yard helping clear up the branches from the old dogwood tree Darry had taken down the day before.

Vic, who had been half on his way to sitting down on the couch, popped back up without a word and went to get the broom.

Soda chuckled. "The kid sure likes you, Dar."

Darry gave a skeptical shrug. "I don't know about that."

Vic came back in with the broom and dustpan.

"Vic," Soda said, "you think Darry's okay?"

"Fuck you." Vic wasn't too fond of Soda, either.

Soda laughed, but Darry gripped the handle of the broom and gave it a sharp tug to get Vic to look at him. "Watch your mouth."

"Sorry," Vic said, though he didn't sound sorry at all.

My head swam with a dizzying array of possible things that could happen next, but I didn't interfere. Last thing I needed was Vic thinking he could squeeze a wedge between me and my brothers. Not to mention, I couldn't even figure out what the right response would even be. _I'm in over my head_, I thought for the hundredth time. Despite my background and my education and my training, I sometimes felt like I had no clue what I was doing when it came to Vic.

Darry just held the broom handle and stared a hole through Vic for a few quiet seconds until Vic swallowed and looked down. "I'll get this finished up now."

I made a quick mental note – _give Vic a threatening glare so he knows you mean business_ – that I already knew would never work for me. I tried to remember how my dad had kept us all in line, because I couldn't recall ever being afraid of him.

After another second, Darry let go of the handle and turned to where I was sitting in the dining room. "Hey, Pony – Two-Bit's mom just got herself a new sofa. She wants to know if you want the old one."

I immediately perked up. "Really?" It's funny – when you're a kid and you see grown-ups get all excited over stupid things like free furniture and cheap light bulbs and ground beef that gets put out at half price, you think to yourself, "I will never be like that. I will _never_ be that un-cool." But, man, when you end up sitting on the floor watching TV every night because you get a spring in your butt no matter where you sit on the sofa, and you just don't have the cash for a new one, the importance of coolness goes right out the window. "When can I pick it up?"

Soda lifted his foot up where Vic was sweeping and earned himself a glare that he grinned right back at, which made me bite back a smile. He tipped his chin toward me. "I can help Darry put it in the truck this weekend if you guys can get it into the apartment once he gets there with it."

"Works for me," I said.

Darry nodded and reached up to do a pull-up on the bar he had attached to the doorway between the living room and the dining room. "Fine with me." He lifted himself up and down five times without touching the floor like it took no more exertion than opening the newspaper. "I dug out Grandpa's other bookshelf from the basement the other day, so I'll bring that over, too. Just wait 'till I get there to move the old sofa out."


	3. Chapter 3

**Sculpting Souls**

**Chapter 3**

Okay, so maybe I was a little less patient than I used to be. Or maybe I tended to think I could do more than I was capable of. It was also possible that there was still some part of me that felt the need to challenge my oldest brother's authority. Mostly, though, I think I just wanted to show Darry that I was a capable adult. I wanted to impress him.

Regardless of the reason, the longer I waited for Darry that Saturday morning, the lighter that old sofa looked, and the stronger I felt.

"He said you should wait for him," Vic reminded me.

"Yeah, I know. But I can at least get it started." I gave the sofa a push. "The closer it is to out of here by the time Darry gets here, the less of his own time he'll have to waste."

Sprawled out across my armchair like a starfish on a reef, Vic just shook his head at me and went back to his magazine.

So, I went back to pushing that sofa out of my life. I stood it up on its end and had no problem getting it over to the doorway. The thing slid like butter on the hardwood floor.

Once I had it halfway through the door, though, I figured out that it really hadn't been such a good idea to move it myself. I had set it down long enough to climb across it into the hallway, turned it back on its end, and pulled it partway through the doorway before it got wedged in at a bad angle and wouldn't budge except to pivot up and down. That left me stuck between it and the opposite wall in the hallway with no moves other than to hold it up so it wouldn't fall and crush me against the wall.

"Hey Vic? Little help?" If Vic could just give the other end a shove sideways, I could get it stood up on end again and pull it through.

"No thanks," he called back.

I sighed. "Look, don't be a jerk. I could really use a hand here."

"I don't help people who call me names."

I had a whole list of other names ready to fire at him, but I took a slow deep breath instead. "Come on, buddy, just give the other end of the sofa a shove." My arm gave a quiver, and I could picture the muscles in my back knotting up as they strained against the weight.

"A minute ago I was a jerk, and now I'm your buddy? Nice try."

I shifted the sofa when another tremor ran through my arm, but all it seemed to do was make the thing heavier. No way was I going to just leave it leaning there for Darry to see, though – a hallway-blocking testament to my lack of forethought. I would let the thing crush me before that happened. That gave me an idea. "I should point out that if I die, you'll go back to a group home."

"I'll take my chances."

Just then I slid partway down the wall and the wooden couch leg pressed into my thigh. _Wonderful_. I let out a string of curses.

"I wasn't aware that you knew that word." My face burned at the sound of Darry's voice.

"The little . . . Vic won't help me."

"I shouldn't help you, either. I told you to wait until I got here."

I slid a little closer to the floor and grunted when the arm pressed into my chest.

"Pony -"

"Yeah, I know – I don't use my head. You told me." _Every day since I was thirteen._

Darry stared at me. "I was going to say, I'll hold this end, and you get over by the doorway and give it some leverage while Vic pushes from inside."

"Oh." I realized then that he was holding onto the couch above my head. I ducked out from under it to the other side.

"Vic," Darry called, "get over here and get your end unstuck."

Vic was there an instant later, and within five minutes Darry and me had the thing sitting out by the dumpster. Another fifteen minutes later we had taken the new old sofa in and were back out for the bookshelf, which I was able to handle on my own.

"He can't stand me," I told Darry on the way across the courtyard. "That kid absolutely can not stand me." It still wasn't anything personal, I knew that, but I was starting to wonder if he would be better off back at the group home. He sure didn't seem to be all that happy living with me.

Darry gave me a pat on the shoulder. "Just stick to your guns. He doesn't have to like you. He just has to listen to you."

"Yeah, the words are pretty," I said, "but how do you make them work in practice?" We were almost back to the front door of the building, so I set the shelf down and turned to Darry. "How did you get us to listen to you?" As dumb as it sounds, I couldn't figure out what had made me do what my brother told me to do.

"When did you ever listen to me?" He smiled when I gave a snicker. "It was actually easy, with you. You were afraid of me when you were a kid."

I smiled and gave him a pat on the arm before picking up the shelf and walking the rest of the way to the door. "Darry, I'm twenty-four years old, and I'm _still_ afraid of you. But that ain't helping me with Vic." I dragged myself and that shelf – which was heavier than I'd taken it for – up the steps ahead of my brother, but paused before opening the front door. "I wasn't afraid of Dad. How did Dad do it?" I couldn't remember any of us ever questioning Dad.

Darry reached around me to turn the knob and shove the door open. "I been trying to figure that one out since three days after I turned twenty, when those cops came knocking on our front door."

#

I folded up the damp rag and wiped the top shelf of the bookcase. "My grandpa made all the cabinets in our house, too," I told Vic, who probably wasn't even listening. I didn't care, though – I liked talking about my grandpa.

The wood was smooth as silk, minus the little nicks and bumps that years of use had caused. I ran my finger over the place on the top where Grandma's flower vase had met its demise, thanks to a rainy day and a house full of grandsons. There was the barest scratch where one of the fragments had slid across the wood under her dishrag.

"My dad never liked woodworking," I went on. "He was good at it, but he hated it. I always wished I could make some of the stuff that Grandpa came up with – I mean, he made the crib we all used as babies, and this little rocking horse that Soda loved . . ." I paused, thinking maybe it hadn't been a good idea to share that little tidbit about Soda; he probably wouldn't care, though. "Anyway, he was good at making things."

I had always wondered why my dad so adamantly resisted one of the things he was so good at. There were times when he would build something for somebody just to bring in a few bucks, but the way he went about it was the same as how me and Soda used to clean our room or sweep the floor – it was a chore. When Grandpa built things, though, I loved watching him. He was careful and precise, and he would get so lost in the art of what he was doing that he wouldn't even hear Mom telling him she'd made him some lunch.

I wiped down the next two shelves, heavy with dust. Vic was picking through one of the boxes of books I had dragged out of the closet to fill the shelf. "My dad didn't have any brothers or sisters," I said.

Vic pulled out a copy of _The Odyssey_ and opened it.

"My grandparents were actually a little older when they had him. They'd given up by then on ever having any kids, and then bam, she was pregnant." I refolded the rag and moved to the next shelf. "He left home when he was fifteen." I still couldn't imagine that. _Fifteen_. "Lied about his age and joined the Navy. I guess that wasn't really what he wanted either, though, because he only served until his –"

"When can I see my dad?"

I stopped wiping and turned to face Vic. "What?"

He tossed the book into the box and gave me a hard look. "You heard me. When can I see my dad?"

I was nothing short of dumbfounded. I mean, I knew that a lot of kids longed to go back to parents who had abused them, but for some reason, it wasn't something I expected from Vic. "You want to see your dad?"

"Is there something wrong with that?" He stood up and stalked across the room, and then turned back to me and waved an arm in the air. "Those bastards who started this whole thing told me I could see him. But every time I ask, everybody acts like I'm asking for the moon or something. I mean, what the hell?" His voice had risen to nearly shouting. "When can I see my dad already?"

I stood up and dropped the rag onto the floor. "Relax. I didn't know you wanted to see him."

"Well what did you think? You think I want to jump from house to house all by myself until I'm eighteen? He's my dad! If I can't live with him yet, can't I at least _see_ him? Or did you people have some grand plan to make me hate him or something?"

"No, of course not. I just didn't realize you would –"

"Why?" he cut in. "Because he hit me? I was being a jerk. You never had anybody you loved hit you for being stupid?"

I wasn't sure if I was more thrown off by his question, or by his admitting so openly that he loved his dad. It almost took my breath away for a second. "Vic . . ." Aware the whole time that I would have to choose my words more carefully than I ever had, I stepped over boxes and books to where Vic was standing, nearly shaking, by the armchair. "There's a difference between discipline and abuse, Vic, and the state feels that your dad crossed that line. To be honest, I agree with them." He stiffened, but I kept talking. "But if you want to see him, I'll see what I can do. Okay? I'll see if I can get you visitation."

Vic turned away from me, but he relaxed about as much as I tensed up inside when I thought back to those pictures of Vic at the hospital. As I tried to imagine who would do something like that, the only face that kept popping into my head was Johnny's dad's. _You'd better want to see your kid_, I thought, _because I have no desire to watch another person I care about get hurt so badly by his own parents' indifference_.


End file.
